Breaking the Bottle
by HarvardDropout
Summary: Craig never imagined that he'd someday find himself sitting around an empty apartment, waiting for his MIA recovering alcoholic boyfriend to walk through the front door while his best friend searched aimlessly for some stupid lamp to celebrate a holiday that didn't even matter to them. Staig - Clyle - Kenbe
1. Introduction

**Author's Note: **Seriously, I need to stop posting stories and focus on finishing the ones I have up at the moment. Oh well, I figured one more won't hurt. This will be a 16 chapter story, and I hope you guys like it! I'll have a one or two-shot focusing on just Clyle to go along with this story when it's finished :)

**Summary:** Craig never imagined that he'd someday find himself sitting around an empty apartment, waiting for his MIA recovering alcoholic boyfriend to walk through the front door while his best friend searched aimlessly for some stupid lamp to celebrate a holiday that didn't even matter to them.

**Pairings:** Craig/Stan - Clyde/Kyle - Kenny/Bebe - Craig/Bebe (brief)

* * *

Clyde used to have a thing for me.

I'm not sure when it started, but I didn't like it at all for a few reasons, the main one being that he was my best friend. The fact that he was clingy and emotional didn't exactly work to his advantage either. If I were to go down that route with him, I could no longer crack fat jokes at his expense and would be obligated to hold him until he was done whining about whatever went wrong at that given moment.

I could compare dating him to the likes of owning an Apple product; there would always be something new coming out, and you'd have the option to either upgrade or stick with what you've invested so much time and money into. In this case, "something new" would be someone else, "upgrading" would be ditching Clyde, and "time and money" would roughly translate to t-shirts covered in tears and snot from his big baby cry fests, bandages, and whatever part of my paycheck would end up going towards Taco Bell.

This is why most Mac users are such dedicated people; they don't want to be, but after shelling out $3,500 for a stupid laptop that does the same exact shit a $500 one running Windows would, you can bet your ass they're going to use that thing until it's got permanent finger indentations in the keypad so deep that the motherboard takes a hit with each strike, or it at least implodes. And when that happens, they'll scramble what money they have left together and get it fixed, because Jesus Christ, $3,500 for a laptop is a lot of money and they've been through hell and back with that hunk of aluminum, so it's not like they can just throw it out.

I don't think I need to point out what would be what in a relationship with Clyde here.

Long story short, nothing ever happened between Clyde and I. Sometime back in the beginning of our Junior year, I guess he managed to get over his stupid crush on me and Kyle Broflovski became his new target. Why? I have no fucking clue, but I wasn't going to argue since it meant things were back to normal between us.

Well, sort of.

"I can't find the menorah," Clyde sticks his head in the room. "I swear I had it in the garage with the rest of the holiday stuff, but it's not there!"

"So."

Clyde gives me a look of bewilderment. "How are we supposed to celebrate Hanukkah without a menorah!"

I drop the book I'd been reading a little to meet his gaze. "Nobody here is Jewish, so what's the point of celebrating a holiday that's not important to us?" I pause for a second before thoughtfully adding in, "Besides Kyle, but he's not even religious anymore."

"You don't understand—it _is_ important, dude!" Clyde whisper-shouts. I'm not sure why since there's nobody in the apartment besides me and him; Kyle is working a late shift while Stan is—actually, I'm not sure where Stan is. "Is Kenny home?"

I reach over for my phone and check to see if I had any missed calls or texts from Stan, but I find nothing. There's a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It's almost midnight and I haven't heard a single thing from him in over six hours, and it's not like he's at work since he was laid off a week ago for refusing to follow protocol and assist in putting down someone's sick pet at the vet's office where he worked as a veterinary technician. Instead, he proceeded to have a mental breakdown and I was required to come and scoop him up, take him home, and convince him not to break into the clinic after hours to set the animals left overnight there free.

Part of me thinks he's just making good on those promises, but it's still gut wrenching to think of all the other possible things he could be out there doing. Not that I care, but when it's late on a Friday night and every single one of your calls or texts have gone unanswered, you tend to get a little worried, especially when your boyfriend is a recovering alcoholic and the closest bar is just two streets over.

"Probably. If he's not home though, Bebe's there. Why?"

"Bebe doesn't use the garage as much as Kenny does, so I don't think she'd know about the menorah. I'll be right back," he explains before dipping out of the room. I can hear his footsteps getting quieter as he advances for what I assume is the front door so that he can chat with our neighbors.

I roll my eyes and return back to my book.

The double (and often triple) dates are still taking some time getting used to even after three years, and I'm still not sure what the point of having a menorah is during the holidays, but I guess it's become some sort of unwritten law that the whole apartment celebrates Hanukkah. What amuses me is the fact that Clyde's the one who's really into it and not Kyle; in fact, I'm pretty sure all of those Jewish history books in the study _belong_ to Clyde. I don't remember exactly what our last conversation entailed, but I think it was something about Clyde asking me if he'd have to chop his dick off in order to convert to Judaism so he could marry Kyle. I simply reminded him that he was the one who'd taken up wearing a yarmulke as part of his everyday attire (until Kyle made him throw it away since he hated those things) so he should know. Like I said earlier, though; Kyle isn't even religious anymore, and I know that doesn't stop him from being ethnically Jewish, but why does it matter to Clyde so much?

Besides that, there are lot of nights spent wide awake since Stan makes almost no sound or movement whatsoever in his sleep and that scares the shit out of me. I doubt I'll ever get completely used to that. I mean, there are times when he's so quiet that I'm actually worried he's_ dead;_ especially nights where he comes home wasted out of his mind and he all but pukes on me. Thankfully it doesn't happen often, and arguments ensue the next morning, but he's gotten a lot better with his addiction and I'm proud of him. Soon enough, he'll be breaking the bottle for good and I'll have to uphold my promise of taking him to the San Diego Zoo.

I sigh.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a metaphorical Mac user.

Maybe I should explain how I've managed to find myself in a relationship with the last person on Earth I ever thought I'd be in one with, why I'm sharing an apartment with Clyde, Kyle, and Stan, and a joint garage with my neighbors that happen to be Bebe Stevens and Kenneth McCormick, along with exactly why Clyde's freaking out over some stupid lamp more so than usual for an irrelevant holiday.

I'll start from the beginning.

* * *

There wasn't a lot to do in South Park. Throwing rocks at cars lost its spark once I left middle school, and the occasional use of drugs and alcohol quickly became its replacement.

Clyde never was one for drinking or smoking but he still hung around, flipping through dirty magazines and keeping me company while I did so. Tweek tried smoking, but he ended up inhaling too much at a time which never turned out good, plus he was always busy at his parent's shop. Token sort of drifted from the group around freshman year to hang out with more sophisticated people or whatever. It sucked having him bail on us, but oh well.

Because of this, it was usually just Clyde and I hanging out, which was fine and dandy since we were best friends after all. He might have constantly irritated the fuck out of me with his oblivious stupidity, but we were bros.

When he had to go and drop that 'I-Like-You' bomb on me though, I didn't have a single person to chill with for a while...

"That game sucked," Kenny mused from the ratty old blue couch. He tossed the magazine he currently had in hand onto the coffee table and began to sift through the pile of them for a new one. "Didn't even have any cheerleaders."

...which was how I ended up becoming friends with Kenny McCormick.

"There aren't any cheerleaders in baseball, dumbass." I took a seat in the foldout lawn chair across from him.

He shrugged. "Should be. Hey, you got any straight mags? I'm cool with all the dicks and stuff, but I'm craving something different."

"Figured you were 'cool' with dicks since you like mine so much," I sneered. On top of our forcibly-forged friendship over drugs, bisexuality, and friends who were too caught up in their own lives to hang out, we were also fuck buddies. "Under the couch there should be a few."

Kenny grunted in response and blindly fished beneath the couch until he found what he was looking for. Slyly smiling as he eyed the cover, he flipped it open and hummed contentedly. "So why didn't you wait for Clyde?"

"I guess Kyle promised him Taco Bell or something after the game, so what would be the point?" Ever since they'd started going out, Clyde had been so far up Kyle's ass that I often wondered if he ever thought about me anymore. "That asshole stole my best friend."

"Dude, Kyle is _not_ an asshole," Kenny defended his friend while turning a page. "But I'm sure you could have went with them. I doubt either of them would have minded, especially Clyde; he friggin' misses you, man. Hell, I could have even came with. I'm fucking _starving."_

I heard a door slam above me and the sound of heavy footsteps. Dad was home.

"How do you know he misses me?" I asked half-heartedly while pulling out a tin lunchbox from beneath the coffee table. I popped the lid and thumbed through the small baggies of weed and pipes; I had accumulated quite the collection over time.

Kenny shrugged. "Whenever I'm around them, he talks about you a lot with Stan."

This grabbed my interest. "Stan?"

"Yup. He's got a total boner for you, I guess." He turned another page and I saw his brows raise in interest at the busty blonde on the glossy paper. "Like I was saying though; Clyde misses you a fuck ton and mentions you a lot, and since Stan has a huge man crush on you or something, he totally jumps at the chance to talk about you."

I laughed and packed a bowl, palming my jean pockets for a lighter. "You're fucking with me."

"Serious as a heart attack. Otherwise, why the hell would we be hanging out so much?" Kenny glanced over at me for a second. I didn't understand what he was talking about since I wasn't fully aware of the extent of Stan's interest in me until he clarified with, "Clyde and Kyle getting together screwed with the group dynamic a little, but I could have easily still hung out with Stan... unfortunately, Stan is completely content with following those two around and gushing over you with Clyde whenever he can. I tried hanging out with Cartman more at first, but he's a sadistic asshole." He sat up and leaned over to hold a hand out expectantly for the pipe I had just lit. Rolling my eyes, I gave it to him and let him have the first hit. "I'm surprised Clyde never mentioned anything about Stan to you before."

I shrugged and snatched the pipe back once he was finished and took a hit myself. If Kenny was telling the truth, then Clyde never told me because either (a) he still had a thing for me and didn't want Stan to get in the way, or (b) he was completely oblivious and had no idea that Stan was into me. Since I knew for a fact that Clyde had been over me for a solid year at the time, it had to be the second reason.

In reality, it turned out that it was neither of these reasons and was something entirely different that I hadn't been expecting; Clyde was apparently trying to protect Stan from me since he knew first hand that I could be "sort of a dick" (his words, not mine) when someone liked me and I didn't return their feelings.

Whatever.

"What kind of things do they talk about?" I found myself asking curiously as I passed the pipe back to the blonde. He shrugged and closed the magazine, letting it rest on his stomach as he accepted the offering.

"I don't really stick around long enough to find out, to be honest. I'd rather not hear it. There's been plenty of times that Stan's mentioned how he'd pretty much like to jump your bones, though."

"Really?"

"Well he hasn't outright _said_ it, but he might as well have. It's so obvious." He took a hit and passed the pipe back to me.

With a perked brow, I continued to stare at him in thought. Stan was definitely an attractive guy, and I'd be lying if I said that I'd never checked him out in the locker room after gym class or that I not once ever thought about him when I was tending to my own needs in the safe confines of my bedroom, but that was where I drew the line. There was not an ounce of me that took an interest in him otherwise; I had no desire to learn his quirks, or find out what he wanted to pursue for a career, and I definitely didn't give a shit to hold him and listen to him bitch, whine, and complain about how the world sucked and how sad he was. He was nice to look at, and that was it; perfect jack off material.

Kenny must've realized what was on my mind since his expression turned from one of amusement to some sort of discontent glare.

"Dude, don't even think about it," Kenny warned. His light blue eyes were fixed on me in a sort of stern look, as if he were telling his daughter's boyfriend that if he defiled his little girl then he'd have his balls chopped off and fed to the family Doberman.

I couldn't help the devilish smirk that crept over my lips. "Don't think about _what,_ exactly?"

"Stan's sensitive. He can't handle being fucked with, so don't go there. Unless you want me to fix those fucked up teeth of yours; I'd be more than happy to knock them straight with my fist if that's the case."

Laughing, I rolled my eyes and reached for the magazine that he'd discarded onto the coffee table in lieu of the one under the couch. "Gotta go for the teeth, huh? Don't worry—Stan might be hot, but I have no interest in dealing with his crazy, so your little friend will stay innocent." Which was true—the part about Stan being hot, I mean. Unfortunately, Stan wasn't exactly as innocent as I initially thought him to be, but I'll get to that another time later in the story.

Kenny huffed and opened his mouth to respond, but the buzzing of his phone grabbed his attention. I watched as his brows lifted in immediate interest while reading over the text he'd gotten. Must've been a booty call.

"I've gotta go—I'll see you later dude," Kenny said while flipping his phone shut and pushing himself off the couch. I gave him a nod and turned back to the magazine I was reading. He was halfway up the basement stairs before he turned back to me. "Oh, and Craig?"

"Hmm."

"I meant what I said about not messing around with Stan," he warned and pointed a finger at me. I rolled my eyes and shooed him away with my hand.

"Trust me, I'm not planning on doing anything. He's too much of a pussy, anyways."

Kenny took my words at face value and gave a small laugh before disappearing up the rest of the stairs. Hell, _I_ even believed what I had told him at the time, but I guess fate had another idea for me since avoiding Stan obviously didn't work out too well, given the current circumstances of me sitting around an empty apartment waiting for Stan to walk through that goddamn door.


	2. Whistlin' Willy's

I'm pretty sure the first time I actually began to find myself knee deep in Stan's bullshit was the following Monday. Usually I wouldn't remember dates and stuff like that, but there was something off about the whole thing so it was hard to forget.

School was out and I was at my locker collecting anything I might've needed when Clyde stumbled on over, tripping over his shoelaces. Our lockers were right next to each other's, as bros' lockers should be.

"You're so graceful," I sneered.

He completely bypassed my insult and asked, "Wanna hang out?"

For a second I just looked at him. Remember when I told you that he'd been so far up Kyle's ass that I wondered if he ever thought about me? I wasn't lying about that. Duh, we'd talk at our lockers, sometimes sit together at lunch, and he'd constantly ask if I wanted to do something with him after school, but Kyle was always right there next to him, completely turning me off to the idea. At the current time though, there was no green ushanka-wearing redhead standing off to the side. It was just Clyde.

Suspicions raised, I did a complete 360 to see if Kyle was maybe somewhere else but found nothing. "What?"

"We haven't chilled in like two weeks, dude!"

_I'm aware of that, dumbass._ "What did you wanna do? Where's Einstein at?"

He leaned down and began to half-assedly tie his shoes. "I'm heading over to Stan's place for a while and was wondering if you'd wanna come over. Kyle's been there since last night taking care of Stan; he sprained his ankle at the game."

"Sprained his ankle?" I asked disbelievingly. "That doesn't make sense; he was running around _off_ the field pretty fine last Friday. Besides, it's Monday. Sprained ankles can't take _that_ long to heal, and they definitely don't require being nursed back to good health."

Clyde just shrugged, completely uninterested in the logistics. "So wanna come over?"

I was going to tell him that I most definitely did _not_ want to go over to Stan's house so that I could watch him and Kyle make out all over the place and listen to Stan's incessant whining about the world and everything wrong with it, but I couldn't shake the interest in knowing what the hell Stan Marsh was playing at with this sprained ankle gimmick. Clearly something was up, especially if Kyle was fine and dandy with taking care of the idiot; if anyone could call someone out on their bullshit better than me, it was him.

Normally I wouldn't care what Stan was up to, but after Friday night when Kenny planted the idea in my head that Stan liked me, it was hard to pass this up. Not that I was interested in Stan, but c'mon; wouldn't it be funny to watch him squirm uncomfortably with me showing up unannounced to stare him down like the weak minded faggot that he was?

Yes, it would be.

So it wasn't long until I found myself standing outside of Stan's bedroom. Clyde hadn't even knocked when he came into the house, just pushed his way through, which made me wonder just how close he and Stan had gotten over the past year. It was kind of upsetting to think about.

"Babe!" Clyde sung out as if he were on the set of some _I Love Lucy_ television show and forgot his original line of, "Honey, I'm home!" His arms were spread wide open, waiting for the redhead to run into them, but Kyle made no attempt at moving from his place at the desk where he was huddled over a heavy textbook.

Stan cringed and groaned, "Don't shout."

"You're late," Kyle observed outloud, his gaze fixed on the book. Clyde shrugged and scurried over to his boyfriend, wrapping his arms around him from behind as if it were some sort of acceptable answer. I tried not to puke all over the carpet. Kyle craned his neck to get a look at the brunette, his eyes scanning over Clyde's features. "Did something happen? You didn't run into a telephone pole again, did you? Those splinters were a bitch to get out."

Clyde shook his head and Kyle gave a faint grin, planting a kiss on the other's cheek. It was getting harder not to throw up by the second, so I decided to interject before it got any more disgusting in there.

"So that's what all those band-aids were for last month?" I asked, honestly amused at the fact that Clyde managed to faceplant himself right into a wooden pole. Two pairs of eyes made their way to me, while Stan's body went rigid; he had his back turned to the rest of us with a pillow held over his head. "Hi."

Kyle furrowed his brows and looked up at his boyfriend who was wearing this stupidly giddy smile. "I got Craig to come over!"

"I see," the redhead nodded and looked back over at me quizzically, as if he knew I was there with an ulterior motive. I doubt he actually did, though. "Nice to see you, Craig. Sorry if I'm a little off, it's just that I'm not used to seeing you around is all."

"You don't gotta be so formal about it. Chill," I scoffed and leaned against the doorway. Stan probably thought he was being smooth with the way he had lifted the pillow and just barely turned over to get a look at whoever else was in the room besides the usual two, but he wasn't. "You're not fooling anyone, dude."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I heard his muffled voice call out, wavering the slightest bit. I could tell he was unsure of himself, unsure of exactly what I was talking about. What I had said wasn't even completely directed at him as I was just baiting to see what the deal was; he had walked right into it. He turned over and cracked an eye open. "What are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to hang out, is that so bad?" I asked with a smirk.

Clyde had his head perched atop Kyle's mess of hair as he flipped through the pages of the textbook, earning half-hearted groans of protest from the boy beneath him followed up by laughs that only egged Clyde on more.

"What're you doing Stan's homework for?" Clyde asked curiously.

"He isn't feeling good."

"I thought he had a sprained ankle," I added to the conversation. "Last time I sprained my ankle, I was fine enough to do my own work."

The room fell silent for a second. Stan was watching me through slitted eyes while Kyle had this sort of quiet panicked air around him. Clyde was completely oblivious to the tension and continued to flip through the book until he managed to get himself a paper cut and hissed out in pain. Kyle's attention immediately snapped back to his boyfriend and he cradled Clyde's hand in his own, examining the wound.

"You're such a klutz," Kyle mumbled while running his thumb over the cut, earning another hiss from the brunette. He stood up and pulled on Clyde's wrist, dragging him through the room while adding, "Let's get a band-aid on that so you don't mess with it."

Before I knew it, I was alone with Stan.

"Is he always like that?" I asked, pushing myself from the doorway to stand in the middle of his room. "Taking care of Clyde like that, I mean."

"Pretty much."

"Is he always taking care of you, too?" Stan shot me a wary glance as he shifted to sit up on the bed, his back against the headboard. He had bags under his eyes and his skin a few shades paler than usual. He didn't offer an answer to my rhetorical question, so I continued. "You know, you should have an ice pack on that ankle."

He momentarily lifted a brow before his eyes fell on his seemingly-fine ankles. I made my way over to his bed and flicked a finger at his left one. He didn't move, so I did the same to the other. Again, he was still.

"Better, I see."

"What? Ouch."

I scoffed. "You're so full of shit."

His eyes returned to slits and my own faltered from his heated gaze, falling to find something shiny sticking out from beneath his bed. For a second I had no clue what it was, but after bending down a bit to get a better look at the object, I realized that it was completely polished off bottle of absinthe.

I didn't even need to get a look at the label to know what it was since—_shit_—after trying that stuff a couple months back with Kenny, how could I ever forget? Absinthe had been banned in the US until '07, and Kenny managed to find himself an old unaltered bottle from his parent's alcohol cabinet. Let me tell you, after trying that shit once, I vowed never to touch it again; that shit will screw you over fourteen times until next Saturday if you have enough of it, and if I wanted to hallucinate then I'd of dropped acid.

Our eyes met for a split second and I put two and two together. I wanted to ask him just how fucked up he'd gotten last night, but I decided against it when I noticed the look in his eyes. It was sad, and I wasn't in the mood to hear him start crying, so I changed the subject as fast as I could.

"So how've you been?" I asked.

He shrugged and sunk into his mattress. "Fine."

Usually he wasn't so cold, but I couldn't blame him—not if he was battling the excruciating hangover that I had to deal with from the green fairy.

Before I could even think about asking another question, Clyde was running into the room like a giant six year old shouting, "Hey, Kyle had an awesome idea!"

"Jesus Christ, _not so loud."_

"We should all do something tomorrow," Clyde continued, focusing on me. "I'd say tonight, but Kyle thinks because of Stan's ankle that we should put it off 'til tomorrow."

On cue, Kyle joined the rest of us. He must've noticed my close proximity to Stan's bed since he had this confused expression on his face before he looked down at the absinthe bottle that I'd found moments before. He cleared his throat and kicked it farther beneath bed, looking back to give me this stern "You didn't see anything" look. I gave him no indication of understanding.

"It'd be nice to have you join us," he said, and then added quietly, "Clyde's really excited that you're here and I think he'd like it a lot if we all hung out together."

I looked between him and an overly-cheerful Clyde, then to Stan who had returned to smothering his face with a pillow. I could tell by his abnormally still stance that he was waiting for an answer. Turning back to Kyle, I nodded.

"Sure, why the hell not."

* * *

The next night, we found ourselves at Whistlin' Willy's. I wasn't too crazy about the choice of location since it was ultimately an indoor arcade for small children, but it wasn't so bad. Clyde and Stan had decided on the place since both of them were giant kids at heart; if it were up to me or Kyle, we'd of been shacked up in one of our houses instead.

Once we had our tokens and placed our order for a plain cheese pizza, I tried to challenge Clyde to a game of air hockey but he'd already taken off in the direction of the tubes that hung from the ceilings. I'm not sure if he was even able to get in them because of his size, but whatever.

"I'm gonna step outside and light up a smoke," I ended up announcing to nobody since everyone had apparently already split. What was the point of hanging out if we were all going to go our separate ways?

Not that I minded much; I liked being alone.

I wasn't for long though, because I found Kyle texting furiously when I walked outside. He looked about ready to smash the phone into a billion pieces if the scornful look on his face gave any indication at all to how he was feeling. When he shoved it into his pocket, he continued to mumble under his breath and kick at the ground. Thinking this had something to do with my best friend, I was automatically on the defense and was asking, "What's the matter?"

He jumped when he heard my voice. "Huh?"

"You mad at Clyde?" I pulled out a pack of Marlboro's and shook a cigarette from the box, trying to keep the accusing tone of my voice to a minimum. If Kyle was so upset with his boyfriend's choice of destination, then maybe he shouldn't be with him. "Because he didn't do a damn thing wrong."

He furrowed his brows and blinked a few times before his phone went off and he tended to it. "It's my mother, she's just-she's being difficult," He let out a groan of annoyance as he texted back. "Clyde's fine."

"Oh," I nodded contentedly, knowing that Clyde was in the clear. For the most part I wouldn't care to ask, but Kyle _was_ my best friend's boyfriend who he cared about a lot, so I humored him. "What's she got her panties in a twist over?"

He shrugged and sat down on the curb, cradling his head in his hands. "It's about Clyde," he sighed tiredly. "She just... doesn't like him."

Immediately interested in knowing how someone could possibly not like the oversized idiot-annoying as he may be-I joined him and took a drag. "What's wrong with Clyde?"

"Nothing's wrong with Clyde. He's perfect," he answered. "She just doesn't think he's-she doesn't think he's someone I should be with. I mean, it's not like she's homophobic or anything, that's not the issue; it's just that she doesn't think Clyde is, uh... _intelligent."_

I literally laughed at that. "Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Clyde's basically got a box of rocks for a brain, but he's a good guy."

Apparently this wasn't an acceptable answer to Kyle because he scowled at me as if I'd insulted his religion (which he was barely even practicing at the time). I decided to continue and added, "So Clyde's not good enough for her perfect little boy, huh. Well she can go screw herself; who cares what she thinks."

"I do, unfortunately," he huffed. "And Clyde doesn't have a box of rocks for a brain. Just because he's a little... _oblivious_... doesn't mean that he's not smart. He's **very** smart in his own way, actually; he's great at sports, he's thoughtful and always remembers small details, is actually pretty decent at math, quite handy with a hammer,"

"But is he smart enough to put the toilet seat down when he's told?"

"You're such an asshole; how can you call yourself his friend?" Kyle asked hotly and stood up from the curb. I rolled my eyes and followed suit, flicking the butt of my cigarette into the parking lot. Clearly my dry sense of humor went straight over his head. "You know, he still cries about that all the time."

"I wouldn't know since you _stole him from me."_

"I didn't steal anyone from you, Tucker. He came to me on his own because you're a jackass and didn't acknowledge him when he needed you. It's not my fault he's not dumb enough to stick around after finding someone who can treat him like a human being."

"So you're acknowledging the fact that he is, in fact, dumb?"

"That's not what I meant, _asshole."_

I had never wanted to punch that redheaded fuck in the face more than I ever did at that moment. The last thing I wanted was for Clyde to come outside to find his boyfriend in a bloody mess on the pavement though, because he'd forever hold that against me. Bro's before hoes doesn't really count when the person you're dating has a dick, I guess, especially when you're the one who threw the first punch, so I settled on attempting to be civil.

"I know it might be hard to believe, but I do care about him," I muttered. "It's probably hard for you to understand, but I _had_ to do what I did; I _had_ to leave him alone for awhile. If I didn't then I'd of just been hurting him more by leading him on or something." I palmed the pack of cigarettes in my jacket pocket, for a second considering lighting up one more. I didn't. "Then you came along and swept the idiot off his feet, getting him all caught up in your shit so much that if I wanted to ever hang out with him, you'd be right there with us."

"If you wanted to hang out with him alone then you could have just told me. I'd of been more than happy to give you guys some bro time."

"That's the problem though-I couldn't just ask since he didn't _want_ to leave you behind!" I actually stomped my foot for emphasis, fully aware that I looked like a five year old throwing a temper tantrum. That was probably the most emotional I'd gotten in all of my eighteen years. "He just wanted you to constantly be around! It was always, _'hey wanna hang out with me and Kyle' _and _'do you think it'd be alright if Kyle came?'" _

His shoulders fell and his expression of anger faltered to some weird nostalgic-looking stare at nothing in particular. "I wouldn't have wanted to leave him behind either."

I couldn't even throw an insult his way after that. Instead, I sighed defeatedly and rubbed my eyes. "Look, like I said-I care. I just want to make sure you're treating him right, okay? Clyde's my bro and I'm always gonna love 'em, even if I'm sort of tough on the guy," I explained. Feeling too exposed, I added in a couple honest threats to spice things up. "Just because I can be a dick to him doesn't mean you can, though. I'll fucking kill you if you hurt him. I swear to God-or Moses, whoever it is you fucking pray to-I will break bones you didn't even know you had."

"For a second I half-expected for Clyde to charge out through the door and tackle you since I'm so used to him throwing punches at anyone who talks to me like that," he snorted smugly and ran a hand through his mess of curls. "But don't worry. I'm not going to hurt him," He smiled. "I love him too much."

"I still can't wrap my mind around the fact that you of all people managed to fall for him. How on Earth does that even happen?" I asked jokingly, wanting to avoid the awkward tension that was now finding its way between us. Kyle figured I was asking a serious question, though.

"If you'd of just given him a few minutes, it'd of been impossible _not_ to fall in love with him," he answered with a crooked half-smile. "As much as I'd like to list off the things that make him perfect, I don't think you're much interested in hearing them."

I scoffed and shook my head. "Please, the last thing I need is to puke before I eat."

"That reminds me, I need to make sure the pizza is plain," Kyle spouted thoughtfully. "Clyde doesn't like anything else on his pizza except for cheese, but he's too afraid to speak up if he gets the wrong stuff."

I fake gagged.

We ended up going our separate ways once we were inside; him to our table and me to wander off and spend the tokens that were currently jingling around in my pockets. There weren't a lot of games that interested me much, but there _was_ a whack-a-mole station, and who could say no to unleashing the fury on some unknowing fake gopher-looking things?

I decided for the good of civilization and for my own sanity that I should let out the pent up anger I'd built up outside when talking to Kyle and began to slam haphazardly over the holes, letting no mole go unharmed; hell, even a couple of them ended up getting jammed in the machine from the brute force of my blows.

_Boom._

_Whack._

_Bang._

Before I could even get another smack in, Stan was hovering off to the side of me.

"What do you want."

"That game is horrible. It condones animal abuse."

"Would you rather take their place, because I'm one-hundred percent comfortable with beating your face in with this mallet thing instead," I grumbled while smacking another mole. I could practically feel Stan wince with every hit.

He didn't answer and continued to stand there. It was starting to get on my nerves so I fished my free hand around in my pocket and grabbed a handful of tokens. I offered them to Stan.

"Go do something. Maybe there's some sort of PETA game around here somewhere. Who the fuck knows in a town like this."

He pushed my hand away and continued to stand there awkwardly. "I just wanted to hang out. Clyde and Kyle are busy right now so I thought it'd be alright if I tagged along with you."

I grunted and smacked another mole. Stan cringed. "If you can keep your mouth shut while I introduce these plastic rats to their maker then feel free to do whatever you want."

He managed to stay quiet for a few minutes while I got to beat the shit out of those moles in peace.

"Craig!"

I turned around to find Bebe with a huge smile. She was holding onto a stuffed shark which I recognized from the concession area where you could trade your tickets in.

"Uh, hey," I dropped the mallet and shoved my hands into my pockets. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Bebe just giggled and twirled a piece of her hair around her index finger. The sound of her laugh made a chill run down my spine. "Well I'm happy to see you, too!"

Don't get me wrong-Bebe was beautiful, hot, stunning, _gorgeous_-she was sex on legs, and any guy who had a single heterosexual bone in his body would be crazy if they didn't want to motorboat those huge tits of hers. She had men practically throwing themselves at her feet, but there was only one guy in particular that she wanted, and that guy was me.

Unfortunately, I had a strict rule about dating clingy, materialistic, possessive, oversexed blondes, otherwise I'd of gladly laid down on the floor and offered up my mouth to please her at the snap of her fingers.

Actually, I already _did_ do that sometimes.

Look-it's really hard to say no to her, alright?

"Yeah," I managed to choke out in an almost whisper, trying so hard to keep my eyes above breast-level. She was wearing this skimpy tank top that left little to the imagination. It took everything I had not to drool.

Stan scoffed lightly.

As if things couldn't get any more awkward, Kenny decided to pop up from around the corner and rush on over to the three of us, eyeing me up and down for a second before setting his sights on the curly blonde next to him, wrapping an arm around her waist.

Bebe frowned.

"What are you doing here?" Kenny asked, looking back at me. He stood on his toes for a second to get a better look at Stan who was behind me and narrowed his eyes. "You're with Stan."

"Hi, Kenny," Stan spoke up.

"Come here," Kenny ignored Stan's greeting and reached for my arm, pulling me off to the side so that we were out of earshot from the other two who had taken up to looking at each other warily. We found ourselves next to an automatic ticket eating machine. "Why is Stan with you?"

I shrugged. "I was invited. Clyde and Kyle are around here, too."

"I told you not to mess with him, dude."

"I'm not, he's following me around the place!"

"Well tell him to _stop."_

"What are you doing with Bebe?" I asked curiously, crossing my arms over my chest. He deflated a bit and looked over at the girl in question, his hardened expression faltering. "You two on a date?"

Now it was his turn to shrug. "We're just friends," he answered after a long sigh. "She's kind of... into someone else."

I lifted a brow and silently wondered if he knew who it was she was into, if he knew that I was the one she had a crush on. When he looked back at me with his piercing blue eyes, I felt like he did. I hoped to God he at least had no idea about the many times I'd had her pinned against the shelves in the storage room of Tweak Bros. with my fingers knuckle deep in her warmth.

"That sucks."

"Something like that," He ran a hand through his choppy blonde hair. "I'm uh, I'm gonna go and grab Bebe. You should probably leave. Stan's already getting ideas; I can tell."

I didn't get to ask what he meant before he took off towards Bebe and managed to usher her in the opposite direction, despite her refusals. Taking Kenny's advice, I decided that there were too many people around and began to walk towards the seating area. Stan trailed behind me.

When we got back to the table, Clyde and Kyle were wrapped around each other, making out as if their lives depended on it while an untouched cheese pizza sat in front of them. Stan blushed, and I knocked on the table with my fist to grab their attention.

"This place is too crowded. I'm gonna head home. I'll see you guys later or something. Or maybe not. I don't know." I said curtly and dumped the rest of my tokens onto the table, pushing them towards Clyde who scrambled to collect them eagerly. Kyle watched him with an amused smile before turning to me and giving me a nod of acknowledgement. I gave him a mock-salute.

When I turned to leave, someone grabbed the sleeve of my jacket.

"Can I get a ride home?" Stan asked lowly with lifted brows. "I don't wanna... bother them."

I shrugged and ripped my arm from his grip. "Sure. C'mon."

The ride home was off putting to say the least. I never thought that complete silence could be so uncomfortable, but thankfully Stan's house was only a couple streets away from Whistlin' Willy's so it wasn't like I had to suffer for long.

Now that I think about it, I don't know why Stan didn't just walk home.

Oh, _right_. He had a crush on me.

Fucking **everybody** did.

But yeah, when we got to his house, I wasn't sure if he expected for me to walk him to his door as if this were the end of some sort of date or whatever, so we ended up sitting there for a minute or two. I kept my eyes on him, waiting for him to get the hell out of my car, but I guess the glovebox was more interesting to look at for him. He'd occasionally look up and over at me, but he wouldn't hold my stare for more than a second.

Wuss.

"Get out," I grumbled when I was officially sick of seeing him.

He jumped a bit and nodded, reaching for the door. "Thanks for the ride, dude. I uh, I really appreciate it."

I just shrugged and waited until he was a couple feet from the car before pulling out of his driveway and leaving him there to watch me drive off. I could see him from the rearview mirror; he didn't start walking towards his front door until I was at the stop sign at the bottom of the street.

Now, most people think of me as an asshole, and I guess it's true to some degree. The thing is, I just don't care is all. Feelings aren't important to me, and it's not my fault that I _like_ being alone. Still, I sort of felt sorry for not even telling him goodnight, but I didn't dwell on that for too long. Besides, it wasn't like it'd be the last time I'd see him... not by a longshot.

* * *

**Authors Note:** So, I need to find a cover image photo thing (no idea what it's called) for the story... if anyone would liked to make one, that'd be super amazing and I'd love you forever, because my artwork is so horrible that it's not even funny, haha.

**tmcala:** I'm glad you like it! And yeah, Craig definitely gives himself more asshole-credit than he's deserving of, haha. He's just... rough around the edges. And my goal is to definitely make you fall in love with Clyle. I'm having way too much fun with those two right now ;)

**igloooo:** Thanks! I like to think that Craig's train of thought would be full of dry and quirky lines, so it's hard NOT for this to be sort of funny in a dry way :P


	3. Tweak Bros

The next time I'd be graced by Stan's presence again would be at school the following afternoon. I was skipping out on math and sitting cross-legged on top of this small hill, smoking a cigarette. I had a perfect view of the gym class below me being forced to run the mile. Clyde was there, huffing and puffing his lungs out as he tried to keep up with Kyle, which was pointless seeing as the redhead was literally running circles around the giant, taunting him with a smile: track and soccer were Kyle's thing.

Chuckling at Clyde's misfortune, I went to take a drag when I heard the grass crunch behind me. Seconds later, a warm body was pressed against me, using my back as a sort of wall. The first thing that went through my mind was _who the fuck even dared to touch me?_

I immediately thought it was Clyde, but that wouldn't have made sense since he was running the mile. Tweek was the next to pop up in my mind but he didn't like bodily contact so that was impossible. Besides, this person wasn't shaking like an abused puppy.

Through with playing the guessing game, I went to turn around and almost slammed face first into Stan, who had his neck craned to the side to look at me while breathing heavily through his mouth. Before I could even attempt to ask him what the fuck he was doing, I involuntarily jumped away from him and pulled my t-shirt up over my nose, scowling. His breath was rancid as _fuck._

He smirked. "You're funny."

"You're _weird_," I shot back, voice muffled from the thick cotton material of my shirt. "What the hell did you eat: lawn clippings, chili cheese fries, and rubbing alcohol? Because that's what it smells like."

Stan didn't answer. Instead, he scooted back over to me and rested his head on my shoulder. I pushed him away before he made himself too comfortable and created some space between us.

He glared at me with a look of indifference, making me knit up my brows in response. His eyes were glazed, hair a mess with his hat nowhere to be found, and he had this thick streak of blush painted across his nose and cheeks. I'd eventually come to find out that he had quite the buzz going on at the time, but I wouldn't know it until he showed up at my house and told me first hand when Saturday rolled around. We'll get to that later, though. Just know that at this point in time, I assumed he'd finished crying his eyes out in the bathroom or something.

"What the fuck is your problem, dude," I asked heatedly.

Stan's glare eased up as a smile formed on his lips. "You're lonely. Like me."

"I'm not lonely."

"We're all a little lonely," he sighed and fell back onto the grass. "Some of us are lonelier than others, but you and me? We understand each other."

"Look, I don't know what the hell made you sad _this_ time but we don't understand each other. We barely _know_ each other. You barely know _me_."

"I know you're lonely," he assured me with a smug smile. I just rolled my eyes and turned back to watch Clyde get yelled at to pick up the pace, causing Kyle to shout back at the gym teacher in defense of his special needs boyfriend. While Clyde attempt to calm the furious redhead down, I felt something wrap loosely around me. I looked down to find Stan's thick letterman jacket draped over my shoulders. I lifted a brow at him, demanding an answer. "It's a bit chilly out here; don't want you to catch a cold."

I snorted and shrugged, causing the jacket to slide off and onto the grass.

Stan replaced it.

So I shrugged it off again...

...and that persistent fuck wrapped it around me once more, this time with a bit of force behind it as he were trying to tell me that he was tired of my shit.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing."

"I'm being a good friend," he answered cheerfully. "Friends don't let each other freeze."

I snorted. "Just because I gave you a ride home doesn't mean we're friends, Marsh."

I guess I must've said the magic words because that stupid grin of his faded and he gave an unsure nod, looking away from me. He didn't say anything after that. He just sort of sat there and watched the kids below us run for the amusement of our fat, sadistic gym teacher. Clyde was sitting on the bench as Kyle forcefully dumped water into his open mouth, both of them seemingly finished with putting up with the teacher.

Minutes later, Stan stood up and brushed his jeans off. "Sorry for bothering you," he mumbled dejectedly. "I'll um, I'll go away."

I watched him turn to leave and sighed at his dramatic attempt of an exit. "You can stay."

He whipped his head around. "Huh?"

"I said you don't have to go," I breathed tightly. "You can stay."

He looked at me for a second as if I were screwing with him and getting ready to play some huge joke on him. Truth was that there was no ulterior motive planned on my end; I just seriously hated it when he made _that_ face, the one that made it seem like he'd just been told that nobody liked him and he was going to die alone.

We continued to stare at eachother for a little while longer until he cracked a toothy grin and took his place back next to me on the ground. I tried not to tell him that he was too close and to stop breathing my air.

I immediately regretted feeling bad for him when he started running his mouth a mile a minute.

"So what kind of movies are you into?" he questioned me merrily, as if we were best friends who'd known each other our whole lives. Well, I guess we sort of _did_ know each other our whole lives in a way. "Comedy, drama, horror? You seem like you'd be into old school gore flicks."

"Gore is fine," I nodded carelessly.

"What about zombies?"

"Love 'em."

"Me too. I know I'm sort of late on the gaming front, but I just picked up Left 4 Dead 2 and _oh_ _man_, it's insane!" He spoke animatedly, throwing his hands in the air. "Have you played Dead Rising?"

"Nope."

"Oh. Want to?"

"Nope."

He frowned and pursed his lips, tapping his chin with a finger for a second. "You look like someone who's into music like the Beatles."

I'm actually amused at this. "Yeah, I am. A lot, actually."

"Called it," he grinned again. "Just music like that, or what?"

I shrugged. I was into a lot of different music genres but I wanted to keep this conversation to a minimum. "You talk a lot."

He laughed. "I guess. It feels weird, talking this much. Sorry. It's just, I don't have a lot of people to talk to. Clyde and Kyle are cool but they've got each other, and like I said... I'm lonely."

I was actually listening to him at that point. For some reason, he was making sense to me. I wasn't looking at him like the weird freak who'd just invaded my space ten minutes prior to tell me about how _I_ was feeling or how we understood each other. It got me thinking that maybe we did understand each other, at least a little bit. We were both feeling left out, and that counted for something, right?

Nice things don't last though, and our moment of awkward bonding was cut short when he started to dry heave in my general direction. Being quick on my feet, I stood up and stepped away from him to avoid any possible undigested cafeteria food being spewed all over me.

"Dude, what the actual fuck—are you _puking_?"

He kept gagging but nothing was coming up. I waited until he was finished with his little puke charades and could form a coherent sentence without being interrupted by a hiccup.

"Ugh, I don't... I don't feel so good."

Figuring I'd be even more of a huge asshole than I already was if I'd of left him to die in a puddle of his own vomit, I pulled him up by the collar of his shirt and tugged him to the nurse's office with a vice grip on his sleeve. He attempted to put up some sort of half-assed fight along the way, bitching and moaning that he was actually fine and didn't want to go, but he wasn't much of a threat.

The nurse wasn't there when I shoved him into the room. He looked around for a second in confusion before his eyes settled on one of those uncomfortable school nurse's office bench/bed things and decided that he should curl up and watch me stand awkwardly in the middle of the floor; I wanted to make sure that he'd be in the nurse's hands and that he wouldn't get up and leave the second I walked out that door, but my patience had been wearing thin ever since he showed up and interrupted my perfectly wonderful time alone.

"Can you get me some crackers?" he asked.

"Where do you think you are, Denny's? Shut up and wait until the nurse comes."

"I didn't eat lunch," he whined. "Please?"

I waited a few more seconds and peeked out into the hall. The nurse was nowhere in sight and upon turning to look back at Stan, he had this starving-kitten look about him, like he'd cry if he wasn't fed right that instant. To make sure that wouldn't happen, I groaned and shuffled through the cupboards until I came across a few packs of saltines and tossed them over to him. He tore through the packaging with his teeth mercilessly.

Ten minutes or so passed until the nurse finally came in, surprised to see us and worriedly asking if we were waiting long. I ignored her question, told her that Stan was sick or something, and began to take my leave.

I was about a foot out the door when Stan asked if I could stick around.

I flipped him off and continued down the hall to my last class as the bell rang.

* * *

After school, I went to work. I had a part-time job at the pet store across the street from Tweak Bros. so I'd usually find myself at the shop before or after my shift to pick up a cup of coffee. The fact that Tweek was usually—if not always—there was an awesome bonus. It was nice getting to spend some time with him.

Unfortunately, Bebe worked there too, and was there when I decided to walk in.

"Hi, Craig!"

"Where's Tweek?" I asked.

She flicked at the coffee straws on the counter. "He and his dad had to run home for a second. I guess these new coffee beans came in but they were sent to their house instead of the shop, but whatever," She shrugged. "You just missed them. They'll be back in about twenty minutes, though."

I nodded, upset that I'd missed Tweek. "Can I have the usual?"

Bebe grinned and leaned towards me over the counter. "The usual?"

"Um. Yeah."

"You'll need to be a little more specific," she said softly while subtly sticking out her chest. "There are two different 'usuals' that you have here, Craig."

It took every fiber of my being to choke out, "Coffee. Black." She nodded with a small laugh and went to fulfill my simple order. Once I'd paid she was finished, she slid the small steaming cup over to me and sat up on the counter, watching me as I dipped a finger into the coffee to test how hot it was. "Thanks."

"It's been awhile," Bebe mused with a faint grin on her lips. "I think there's still fifteen good minutes left until they get back; why let such precious time go to waste?"

"So what's up with you and Kenny? You two seeing each other, or...?."

She frowned at the forced change of subject. "We're just friends," she sighed tiredly. "You and Stan?"

"We're _not_ friends," I scoffed. "He was just there at the time."

"Mhmm."

"Kenny's a good guy," I continued. "You ever think about giving him a go?"

"I'd rather give someone else a 'go'."

"Well I think he likes you, so you should definitely jump on that before it's too late," I was officially rambling at this point, using Kenny as a sort of scapegoat. Not like he'd care since he was obsessed with the girl apparently; it was so obvious at Whistlin' Willy's.

"I've got to get to work, so uh... I'll see you later," I said while beginning to head for the shop doors.

"Fuck me."

I turned around so fast that the room was spinning. "What?"

"I said fuck me," she repeated while climbing over the counter. She eased her way on over to me and threaded her fingers in the collar of my shirt, much like the way I'd done with Stan hours earlier when I was getting him to go to the nurse's office. I took a second to look around the shop and see if I had any witnesses but the place was desolate. "Right now, in the storage room."

I'm quite confident that I looked like a deer caught in headlights at the time as I sputtered off incoherent lines. She was the only person who could make me do that.

Keyword: _was__**. **_

"I—I can't right now because uh, because my—my hands hurt," I managed to spit out. I really didn't have the time or mental energy to be fooling around with one Bebe Stevens. Damn her and those awesome tits. "And I bit my tongue."

She laughed and kissed me on the cheek. "I don't want your fingers or your mouth today," She let one of her hands break free from my shirt to palm the front of my jeans. "I want _this."_

I gulped and nodded, not another word slipping past my lips as she locked the front door and dragged me to the storage room. You see, for the most part I've got a pretty high resolve with fending Bebe off. If it were any other day, I'd of most likely been able to tell her no and walk right out of that shop, but getting to have _actual sex_ with her? There's no passing that up.

Bebe might play dumb, but beneath that blonde exterior is a total goddess and she knows it. I blame all the years of hanging out with Wendy, but whatever. The point is that guys didn't just get to sleep with her; they could please her, sure—fingering and oral sex until their fingers were stiff and their mouth was numb—but the chances of them sticking their dick in her were less than 1%. Hell, she had been chasing after me for two straight years and I'd only gotten to fuck her once before.

Let me just say that one single time was pure heaven, so I just about had a heart attack when she told me what she wanted. How could I tell her no?

I couldn't, which is exactly why I proceeded to screw her brains out until we heard the shop doors open and Mr. Tweak call out and ask where Bebe was and why on Earth the door was locked. Bebe managed to fool him with a lie about how she was restocking some stuff and wanted to make sure nobody would try to steal coffee while she was in the back, and I was completely overlooked since I spent so much time at the shop anyways.

Bebe was about to open her mouth and ask me something—most likely about how I should stop giving her the run-around and just date her already—but thankfully she was interrupted by Tweek dragging a huge bag of coffee beans through the shop door. I gave the spazztic blonde a wave and helped him carry the bag to the counter before getting the fuck out of there as fast I could.

I felt sort of bad for messing around with Bebe when I knew good and well that Kenny was so into her, but he'd of done the same thing if he were in my situation. I also vaguely wondered if Stan was alright and if he managed to get some proper food into his system besides those shitty saltine crackers.

I shook my head of those thoughts when I realized that I was beginning to care.


	4. Fence Hopping

Saturday came a few days laters. I didn't see Stan at school for rest of the week after dropping him off at the nurse's office, which sparked a small curiosity in me but I didn't care enough to investigate what was going on. I figured he was just pulling another sprained ankle card.

I was downstairs in the kitchen making a sandwich during a _Red Racer_ marathon intermission when my little sister waltzed in and began to rummage through the fridge.

"Don't do that, you little shit; dinner is gonna be ready in an hour," I grumbled while kicking the refrigerator door shut with my foot.

She shot me an evil glare at the fact I'd almost slammed her fingers along with it and nodded over at the untouched sandwich on the counter. "You're stuffing _your_ face."

"_I'm_ a legal adult who doesn't have to eat dinner with the rest of you idiots if I don't want to."

She scoffed. _"You're_ a faggot."

I scowled as she gave me the middle finger and snatched a bag of chips off the counter before skipping out of the kitchen and back into the depths of Hell from whence she came.

Suddenly craving a pre-snack smoke, I tugged on the letterman jacket that was draped over one of the kitchen chairs and headed out the back door. I figured I had a good five or six minutes left since there was some stupid short fifteen-minute clay animation video taking the place of the usual commercials at the time, so I leaned against the rails of the deck and lit up a cigarette.

There was some rustling over to my far right but I didn't pay it any mind. Raccoons around here were a total bitch and I honestly couldn't care less if one of them were hiding out and waiting to pounce on my stupid Dad or something. It wasn't like _I_ was in any sort of danger so I continued to puff on my cigarette until the rustling only got louder and the sounds of human grunts were added to the mix.

Finally wanting to know what the actual fuck was going on, I looked over and just about dropped the cancer stick I was currently balancing between two fingers because it was at that moment, I realized that Stan Marsh was fucking insane.

Stan was teetering over the top of the wooden fence separating mine and my neighbors backyards, his stomach taking the pressure while he looked about ready to face plant into the ground. He was wearing nothing but shoes and a pair of gym shorts, and his arms were full of something—emphasis on_ were_—that was falling all over the grass and patches of unmelted snow below him.

Not exactly sure what on Earth was happening, I waited until he tumbled over completely into my yard before lending a hand in assistance.

"Care to explain what you're up to?" I asked while walking over to his crumpled frame at a leisurely pace. Other than a drawn out agonizing groan, he didn't answer. I toed his side with my Converse-covered foot and pushed him over onto his back when he made no effort to move. His nose was bleeding. "Get up. You're not bleeding all over my backyard."

He lethargically rolled his head to the side and smiled up at me.

"Seriously. This isn't cool."

"It's cold."

"No shit, Sherlock," I grumbled and bent down to pick up some of his belongings that had fallen out of his arms moments before. There were a bunch of CD's and a couple of zombie flicks that I'd never heard of before. I was more interested in the names of the artists that seemed to be scribbled out randomly on the paper sleeves of the burned discs: _Spice Girls_, _3OH!3_, _Bouncing Souls_, _Lil Wayne_, and _That One 80s Band Who Sings About Wolves Being Hungry_. "What."

In the midst of staring at the off the wall mix of names, I didn't notice Stan get up and close the distance between us until his fingers were prying the CD's out of my hands. "I tried to find some Beatles stuff, but their shit is so hard to find online for free to download," he said with a shrug. "I got a bit of everything, though."

"A little bit of hell, maybe," I grumbled. "The only thing here that doesn't make me want to shoot myself in the face is _Bouncing Souls_ and _Duran Duran_."

"_Duran_—?"

"'Hungry Like the Wolf.'"

"Ohhh."

I lifted a brow expectantly and waited for him to start explaining what he was doing hopping my fence but he just stood there with a blank look on his face while blood slowly dribbled over his lips and down his chin. That's when I noticed, "You smell like alcohol."

The corners of his lips turned upwards a little. "I only had a little."

"You're drunk," I deduced. It was the only explanation for his bold behavior, not to mention how calm he was with the fact that his nose was creating a small puddle of blood on the ground or how he seemingly gave no fucks whatsoever even though his chest was almost _glowing_ bright red and he had some snow in the waistband of his shorts. "You're so drunk."

"It's cold."

"Jesus Christ, c'mon," I grabbed his arm and began to tug him towards the back door of my house. He didn't put up much of a struggle other than some stumbling. When we got inside I let him go, shoved the rest of his things into his arms and went to snatch my cell phone off the kitchen counter. "What's your mom's phone number?"

He tilted his head to the side and dropped his things onto the table. "Huh?"

"Phone number. Mom or dad. I don't care, as long as they come get you the fuck out of my kitchen," I explained while mashing some buttons. Seconds passed and he didn't answer, so I looked up at him. "Are you fucking retarded? I'm talking to you."

He shook his head with a panicked expression. "No, don't call them. My mom will kill me if she sees me like this."

Well he sobered up fast. "Yeah well you should have thought about that before deciding to be a dumbass."

"Seriously, don't," he reached out to grab my phone but I held it out of reach. "You already got me in a ton of trouble when the nurse called my mom to come get me. I'm grounded from leaving my room until Monday. She doesn't like it when I drink."

I quirked a brow, wondering if he was aware that he definitely wasn't in his own bedroom and that it was Saturday. "You were drunk?"

"I—I was buzzed."

"That explains a lot," I said with a scoff and discarded my phone back onto the counter. I pulled some paper towels off the roll and handed them to Stan, who took care of his nose. "You're usually so quiet... are you always intoxicated at school?"

He shook his head and wrapped his arms around his chest. I guess he was finally beginning to register that he was almost naked with snow-soaked shorts. "No, I sort of just had a bad night before and didn't want to deal with a hangover, so I had a little to drink so I could curb it."

I had dropped him off at his house after Whistlin' Willy's the night before. He seemed fine then, but I guess Stan Marsh was just a bag of wonders. "What happened?"

"Can I borrow a shirt?"

"No."

"It's—It's really fucking cold in here, man." He shivered. "Please?"

I was going to tell him that he could go fuck himself, but it wasn't easy to think when his hard-as-diamond nipples were pointing right at me and making me incredibly uncomfortable. I groaned in annoyance instead, grabbed my uneaten sandwich from the counter and began to make my way for my room. Stan stayed on my heels.

I shoved the plate into his hands and started to rummage through my dresser for a shirt that he could borrow. When I found one that I assumed would fit him, I turned to give it to him along with a clean pair of gym shorts, only to find my sandwich half gone and Stan licking his lips.

"Really?"

He blinked. "That wasn't for me, was it."

"No!"

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly and traded the shirt for the rest of the sandwich. "Um, if it counts for anything, you uh... you make a great sandwich?"

I rolled my eyes and looked over at my television. The ending credits of _Red Racer_ were rolling, and I found myself growing more and more heated by the second. First he interrupts my smoke, then he decides to eat my food, and to add insult to injury, he made me miss the rest of _Red Racer_. "I hate you so much right now."

"I'm gonna go change if that's alright," he said. I just grunted in acknowledgment, told him the bathroom was down the hall, and waited until he was out of my room before finishing the other half of the sandwich I'd made.

I was a few pages into the new issue of _The Avengers_ when Stan came back into the room, clad in the clothes I'd given him. The shirt was still a little too tight despite the fact that it was the biggest one I owned, but whatever. At least it covered him up.

"You're wearing my jacket," he said with a smile.

I just shrugged and continued to focus on the comic book I was reading. "So? It's warm."

He didn't say anything else about the jacket after that, but I didn't fail to notice the smug expression on his face from the corner of my eye. I made it a point to take off the jacket and toss it to the side like it was trash in order to spite him. He didn't seem to be very affected by it, though. I figured what little alcohol that was still coursing through his bloodstream was to blame, because he totally seemed like the type of person to hold a sentimental value even to pocket lint.

We ended up sitting there in silence for the next two hours, me going through my comic book collection until I was out of new issues to read while he watched television on my bed as if he were in his own room. At some point I told him that it was time for him to get the fuck out, but he just gave me this stupidly hopefully look and asked if he could stay the night since it was late and his mom would ground him until he was 30. I don't know what made me give in to his begging but I did, and I regretted it the second the time began pushing towards 10:30PM and he was nodding off to a rerun of _Futurama_.

I didn't want to try and sleep next to him when he was awake. There was just some sort of unwritten law in my head that made it extremely faggy for two dudes to fall asleep together in the same bed, so I decided to spend the next hour surfing the web and watering Broflovski's Farmville crops per his requests. When Stan's breathing began to even out and I was 95% sure he was knocked out completely, I shut my computer down and crawled over him into bed.

It was impossible for me to fall asleep with a foreign body in my bed, so I ended up popping in one of the DVD's that Stan had brought along with him. I figured it'd be lame as fuck and would bore me to death with it's shitty low-budget gore, but it turned out to be good. Really good. So good that I was glued to it for the whole 104 minutes, only looking away from the screen to make sure Stan was still breathing once in awhile. I might have been nursing a dumb fear of the possibility that he'd wake up as a zombie and try to maul me, but that was stupid and short lived once the movie was over and I found myself tired as hell, so I pushed Stan over more towards the edge of the bed and settled down under the blanket to get some sleep.

I woke up the next morning feeling as if I were in a sauna with how hot it was. For a second I was worried I'd gotten a fever or something until I felt a puff of hot air on my neck and someone's arm tighten around me. I immediately remembered the previous afternoon's happenings and pushed Stan off the bed with a forceful shove, not even thinking about the possible consequences of him cracking his skull open on the floor; there was no part of me that was alright with having him cuddle me (or touch me at all).

He was a little slow coming to, but he registered the fact that he was no longer on the bed and was indeed on a hardwood floor pretty fast.

"You were cuddling me," I answered before he could even ask what happened. "That's gay."

"Sorry. I'm sort of a touchy-feely kinda guy, even in my sleep I guess."

"You're sort of gay is what you are."

He stood up and stretched, flashing me a great view of his teeth when he yawned. I silently envied how perfectly straight they were.

"Thanks for letting me stay the night," he said mid-yawn. "You didn't have to do that, but you did. I really appreciate it, man. You're the best."

I stood up along with him, stretched, and picked up his jacket from the floor to give it to him.

"Why do you keep bothering me?"

He seemed to be taken aback by that question, as if it were the last thing he was prepared to answer. "Huh?"

"You've sort of been up my ass, dude. You _know_ what I mean."

He shifted his eyes around the room for a couple of seconds before saying anything, finding an odd interest in my desk chair. "I guess I uh, misread your body language," he answered hurriedly. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone."

I wanted to ask what he meant but he seemed as if he didn't want to elaborate. Plus, I had other questions that'd been boiling over for most of last evening that I wanted answers for, specifically, "Are you an alcoholic?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you always drunk?" I rephrased the question. "You were drunk at school, you hopped my fence at least _somewhat_ intoxicated yesterday, and don't even try to deny having a hangover that one day I came over after school, dude; I _saw_ the bottle under the bed."

He opened his mouth to defend himself but nothing came out, so I continued:

"It's none of my business what you do, and frankly I don't give much of a damn, but it seems like you've got a problem and maybe you should talk to someone about it, Marsh."

"I don't really have anyone to talk to. I mean, don't get me wrong—I've always got Kyle, he's my best friend and he's always there to help me out, but... I know I'm a lot to put up with," he said with a sigh. "Like, he's got Clyde, and they're _happy,_ and—and I hate having to always drag him into my problems and bring him down with me. He never complains about helping me but I know it's gotta frustrate him. He's just too nice to admit it out loud."

"What about your parents?"

He laughed. "That'd be a disaster. Dad's an alcoholic himself, and Mom... she knows about me already, but it's like, she doesn't want to acknowledge it. I mean she _does_, but I dunno. It's like she thinks I'm just being overdramatic like my father and if she ignores it then things will be alright."

I frowned and fumbled with the bunched up letterman jacket in my hands. Admittedly he sort of was over dramatic, but that didn't mean it was okay for his own mother to write him off like that. "That sucks."

"Yeah," he agreed and reached for his jacket. I handed it to him and watched as he shrugged it on. "I'll get out of your way now. Thanks for not ratting me out last night, dude." He nodded over towards the small pile of DVD's and CD's on my desk. "Keep those, I brought them for you since I thought you'd like them."

When he started towards my bedroom door, I couldn't help but follow behind him. "You can always come to me if you need someone to talk to. I don't know anything about being an alcoholic firsthand, but like, my dad went through a bit of an alcoholic phase once and I had to help him out of it with my mom," I said. "He's fine now. Drinks on the weekends once in a blue moon."

"Nah, I'm fine—"

"Dude, no," I grabbed his shoulder and stopped him before he could begin down the stairs. He turned and gave me this sort of spooked-out look, like he thought I was about to knock his front teeth out. "This isn't cool, the whole depending on alcohol thing and not having someone to help you deal with it. You can't just go through life hopping fences and showing up places intoxicated. You're already annoying enough as it is," I explained. "I've had some experience with this stuff before, and besides, I sort of actually feel bad for you, so just. Let me help, alright?"

He was wary about my proposal. I couldn't blame him for being so. Nobody would expect for Craig Tucker to willingly offer his help to anyone, not even if that person was tied to railroad tracks with an oncoming train right around the corner, but that was just the public image I'd painted for myself so that people would leave me the fuck alone. I might seem like a douche on the outside—and to some degree I sort of am one—but nobody is gonna pass up someone in serious need of assistance, unless that someone is Eric Cartman. Cartman could go die a fiery death for all I cared.

So if Stan Marsh needed someone to bitch and whine at in order to deter himself from the bottle, I guess I could handle it. It wasn't like I had much of a choice at that point anyways; I'd already gotten in too deep with him, and if something managed to happen to him (i.e. death by alcohol poisoning) when I could have possibly stopped it, he'd completely throw off my mojo. I like to keep a clear mind with no worries, and this fucker has unfortunately infiltrated said mind.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "Alright."

"Good. Come on, I'll drop you off," I shoved past him and headed downstairs. "That one _Dead Alive_ movie was pretty good, so I guess you've earned a ride."

He laughed and I couldn't help but smirk. It was rare for me to make someone laugh, so excuse me for enjoying the moment.

The ride to his house was silent except for the radio. I brought along the burned _Bouncing Souls_ CD for the ride to check out what songs Stan had picked out, which I admit was a good selection. Unlike the last time we were in a car together, it wasn't an awkward silence; I was actually pretty content, tapping the steering wheel along to the beat of the music while Stan focused on the passing cars with a thoughtful expression.

I cut the engine when I pulled up to his house and we sat there for a few seconds, both of us staring at his house. There was nobody home, or at least I thought there wasn't; there weren't any cars in the driveway so I assumed his parents might've been at work or something, but it was a Sunday. I didn't ask about their whereabouts, though.

"Thanks for the ride and, uh. Everything," Stan said. He flashed me a nervous but thankful smile and reached for the door. "I really appreciate it."

I nodded.

We kept eye contact for a couple more seconds until he turned to step out of the car. He was halfway up the path to his front door when I rolled down the passenger-side window and called out his name.

He turned around with lifted brows and asked, "Yeah?"

I didn't know how to respond. I mean, I was well aware of the fact that I was the one who called him, but I had no idea what to say. Shit, I didn't even know why I said his name. There wasn't anything I _wanted_ to say...

"You're not so bad when you're sober," I ended up shouting out. "I like it."

Mentally, I was slapping myself. That was the dumbest thing to ever come out of my mouth, but apparently Stan found it amusing because he just gave me this toothy-grin and continued up towards his house. I waited until he was inside before letting out the breath I hadn't even realized I'd been holding.

I didn't think things could get any more gayer than that, but that thought was quickly thrown out the window when he gave me a blowjob; that's uh—that's a story for next time, though.


End file.
